Resting Place
by the Minotaur
Summary: A demigod at his end. Rather harsh. Inspiration song: What A Catch, Donnie by Fall Out Boy.


He is the one they forgot. The boy lays broken on the ground, no strength to raise, no will to try. He feels useless, betrayed, unwanted. He knew he couldn't win. He knew it was pointless to try. He knew he would fail.

It hadn't always been like this. Not for everyone. Once, there was hope, at least for others. He'd taken beatings, so that his younger siblings could survive. He'd given up his own dreams so that the children could follow theirs. Or at least he'd pretended to. Not like their mother would help. But it didn't matter, he was there for them. He made sure their homework was done, they were clean and fed, he made sure they had beds to sleep in, clothes to wear. He worked at a young age, trying to support them. He stole. He was ashamed of it, but he'd had no choice. To survive, he needed food, he needed money. When he couldn't get any, he had to take from others. He tried to pick the greedy, the rich, the misers and the ones who wouldn't care. He stole swiftly, and never took more than they needed. He was careful not to get caught, if he went to jail, his family would die. He would sing to them, though. Their favourite song, a clear lullaby, beautiful and soothing, one that made all your troubles disappear. _Whatever fight may come my way, whatever struggle comes today, I will not bow, I will not break, I will take all the pain you can make. But the pain, I won't feel a bit, because I still have love, and I'm proud of it._ The boy didn't know where the song came from, and he didn't know the rest of the lyrics, but he would always sing it.

Their mother wouldn't notice, though. She'd be drinking away her memories, sleeping with random men, ignoring her children. Ever since the first man left, she hadn't cared about anything. The children didn't even know who he was. But whenever she was angry, or sad, she'd call one to her, all sweet and loving. Pretend to want a hug, when really she meant to beat them. The boy knew that tone. He knew what would follow, and so he kept his siblings away from her then. But she'd call louder, and come searching. It was then that he'd have to face her beating, taking it without crying out, so as not to scare the little ones.

The boy sighs in shame. He knew it was futile. He couldn't possibly have succeeded. He should have escaped when he'd had the chance. But he'd remained, in hopes that he could pull them together. Now the children were dead, and he was dying. Long before their time. Their mother was gone, and a good riddance to that.

There had been five of them. Each of a different father, all united in their struggle to survive. They never wanted this. They never wanted to fight to live. They just wanted to be happy. They wanted Christmas like the other children had; they wanted birthday parties and food in the fridge every night. They wanted toy balls and dolls and to play sports in leagues like their classmates did.

The boy tried hard to make it happen, and once, his sister had played soccer. She was good, too, fast and agile and a swift shooter. She could put it past any goalie. Now, she lay broken on the ground, her legs mangled. Even if she were still living, there would be no chance of her ever playing again. She'd had such potential. She'd wanted to play for the Olympic team one day. Those dreams are now forgotten, and lay only in memory of what once was.

The little boy had wanted to be a firefighter. He'd gone on a fieldtrip to a fire station once, and had had the best time of his life. In school, he drew and wrote about firefighters, and played pretend firefighters with the boy whenever the boy had time in his rough life. His ashes flew around in the light breeze now. What a cruel, ironic way to die.

The youngest girl had wanted to be a writer. She spent days writing on whatever she could, creating brilliant stories, often having to keep them in her mind until she got the rare opportunity to write it out. She'd been an excellent speller, too, coming in first in her school spelling bee. Now, she was gone, her wonderful stories lost forever.

The middle child, a girl, had always wanted to be a dancer. She was petite and graceful, her limbs moving gracefully to the songs the boy sang. Her dancing captivated everyone and no one, because they couldn't afford lessons, but those who saw her were stunned. She was beautiful, and well loved. Her beautiful body now lays under her favourite tree, a beautiful poplar that seemed to dance in the fall wind. A fitting final resting place.

The boy, the one who kept them all going, who encouraged all those dreams and told them that they could succeed. He'd wanted to be a musician. He'd wanted to strum a guitar and sing for people. He'd often walk past the local music store, just to see the gleaming instruments that sat inside. He longed to hold them, to play them, even now. But he couldn't. And he never did. He'd had a beautiful voice. A perfect soprano still, his voice made every situation a little better. He'd sing lullabies and encouraging songs to the children, singing to them, singing about them, singing to make them laugh. They'd loved it.

Feeling death creeping closer to him, the boy began to sing once more. "_Whatever fight may come my way, whatever struggle comes today, I will not bow, I will not break, I will take all the pain you can make. But the pain I get, I won't feel a bit, because I still have love, and I'm proud of it._"

Apollo watched as the boy sang to himself once more. _That is my son. And I did NOTHING. _ He thought angrily, tears in his eyes. He bowed his head, and began to sing.

"_Son, every fight you fought today, you worked hard, and won your way. You wouldn't stop, you didn't fall, you rose up, above it all. No matter what you did, and what you do, remember you still have love, and I'm proud of you."_

The boy lifted his head weakly as the second verse drifted through the air. He smiled, and lay to rest for the final time.


End file.
